


never let me go

by polkadot



Category: Gymnastics RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 11:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8889589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/pseuds/polkadot
Summary: Fabian, Epke, and Rio.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_la_grecque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_la_grecque/gifts).



i. sight

No matter how many flights Fabian takes, he’s never managed to become a relaxed traveler. His taller friends joke that gymnasts have it easy – and yes, Fabian can see that it would be even more hellish if his knees were constantly wedged against the seat in front of him – but it’s only a matter of degrees. Worse even than the tight spaces is the glacial stretch of unforgiving hours, forced to be confined motionless and still. Fabian has taken to lurking in the galley for as long as the flight attendants will let him, even if it’s meant that Toba never stops teasing him about his platinum membership in the mile-high club. 

(Like Fabian would risk having sex on a plane and getting caught. The tabloids would have a field day. That’s a Yuri van Gelder kind of move, not a Fabian one.)

If only he could follow the example of non-athletes and pop a pill before takeoff; but Fabian is hypervigilant about everything he puts in his body, and he won’t risk it. He already finds testing sessions to be awkward enough, with the tester having to directly observe him to make sure he’s not, like, hiding a vial of somebody else’s piss under his junk. Having to deal with a positive result would be devastating. He minimizes his medical intake, and since his anxiousness on flights is manageable, if annoying, that means no pills for him.

But it also means that Fabian greets their arrival in Rio with a healthy amount of relief mixed in with the giddiness of anticipation. At last, at last they’re here, and it’s only a few days until their Olympic adventure will begin in earnest.

The sight of the customs line, swollen and still, puts a damper on his spirits. Still, he’s upright instead of caged; they join the line, and Fabian divides his attention between stretching his stiff muscles, posing for selfies with a trio of giggling fans, and avoiding Marcel’s attempts to steal his phone out of his jacket pocket. (Fabian still remembers the time he was convinced he’d left his phone in a sushi restaurant in Japan, and Marcel let him go _all the way back to the restaurant_ before confessing. Never again. Also, the pictures Marcel takes while he’s in possession of people’s phones are brain-scarring.)

Then Toba, behind him, suddenly calls out, “Epke!”

Fabian turns, and there’s the Dutch team, joining the end of the line. Deurloo waves at them. 

And Epke – Epke is smiling, and despite the stretch of a hundred tired passengers between them, and Fabian’s own aches and pains, Fabian can feel the touch of that smile like a tangible thing, sunny and bright. 

He smiles back, and feels his grumpiness slip away. 

~

ii. touch

Fabian is the first to compete in the high bar final. It’s a bit nervewracking to start the event; you always feel like the judges are going to mark you down a little, just to ‘leave room’ for those who come after you, even though that’s less of a worry now than under the old judging system. And you also have to sit around for _ages_ after you’ve finished, unable to do anything but watch and die millions of tiny deaths in the seconds between a routine finishing and the score being announced, when you find out if you’ve been surpassed.

(Going last isn’t easy either, but at least you know exactly how high a standard has been set, and exactly what you need to do. Fabian would rather go last, every time.)

Today is especially stressful, for two reasons. First, it’s probably Fabian’s last Olympic routine. He’s not ready to rule out Tokyo entirely yet, but in his heart of hearts, when he’s being realistic, he knows it would be a hard road. (Then again, if he falls short of high bar gold again, will he able to resist just _one_ more try? That’s what happened after London, after all…) And if it _is_ his last routine, Fabian is determined to make it a good one.

And second, with several of the main contenders failing to make the final, it’s a fantastic opportunity for Fabian to step up and claim the shining trophy that has eluded him in his previous Olympics: the gold medal on high bar. Bronze in Beijing, silver in London – can he complete the set here in Rio? Epke stands in his way, of course, defending his London crown, but still. Still. 

He steps onto the mat.

(In the practice gym, Epke touched his elbow and wished him good luck. Fabian can still feel the warmth of his touch, the caress of Epke’s smile; he puts it out of his mind with an effort, and turns all his focus to the task ahead.)

He hits his routine, and screams with joy.

After, as he leaves the mat, Epke is coming on. They shake hands, and Fabian smiles, pure exhilaration spinning through his veins like wildfire. 

~

iii. embrace

When Epke falls, Fabian’s heart stops.

It feels like forever until Epke moves, and Fabian’s heart thumps back into rhythm. 

If he could, he would vault back onto the mat and rush to Epke’s side; he would make sure that Epke’s eyes were focusing, that his brain was clear. Gymnasts fall all the time in training, so they know that there are falls and then there are falls – and that fall was the latter kind. That fall is the kind that has concussion written all over it, and Fabian is clenching his fists against the need to make sure Epke is okay.

Epke gets back up on the bar, and this time he executes his routine perfectly. It’s beautiful, a fantastic high-flying routine that never fails to take Fabian’s breath away, and if he hadn’t fallen the first time it would have probably been enough to pass Fabian. But he did fall, and Fabian knows he’ll maintain his lead.

When Epke finishes his routine and climbs down from the mat, Fabian is there to wrap him up in a hug. 

Thirty minutes later, when Danell’s score is posted and Fabian officially becomes the gold medalist in the high bar, Fabian hugs everyone around him. First Danell, then all of his coaches – then he takes a break to scream for joy again – then he hugs Wilson, and then he’s getting tapped on the back, and turning around straight into Epke’s arms.

“Congratulations,” Epke says in his ear, his voice warm and happy, not a tinge of bitterness. 

Fabian hangs on for dear life, his heart full, not trusting his own voice.

“Congratulations,” Epke says again, and holds him tighter.


End file.
